Page 17 of His Savage Bride
I glance over at Constance, then tell the detective, “Yes, Ms. Monroe is here with me. What did you find out? Who were these men who tried to abduct Constance?”
“The two men who abducted Ms. Monroe are a couple of stick-up artists who used to work for the Santini crime family before their dissolution. Their names are…were, Reginald Granger and Justin Harrison. Since Leon Santini went down two years ago, they’ve been doing odd jobs—robbing warehouses and port shipments—for the Volkovs. Our working theory right now is that this abduction was meant to be some sort of payback for your work helping the NYPD break up the Volkovs’ enterprises. What we don’t know is who was directly behind it. The good news is that the surveillance footage we’ve recovered may have a couple of leads. Ms. Monroe, were you aware that you were being followed yesterday when you went into the pizzeria?”
“Um, yes,” Constance says as she leans over towards my desk. “One of Maximo’s employees, a man named Tony, had been assigned to watch out for me.”
“That’s right, one of the men we spotted following you was…let’s see here,” Detective Tillman paused, and we could hear some papers being shuffled. “Here it is, Tony Buck, an associate of Enzo Luciani, who I believe is your recently deceased cousin, Mr. Luciani?”
“Enzo was my cousin, yes,” I confirm. “Tony was an old friend of his who I’ve hired as a security guard due to his skill set.”
“And he does have a rather specialized set of skills, doesn’t he, Mr. Luciani? His rap sheet is a list of various assault charges. We suspect he’s been breaking legs for your family for over a decade.”
“I’m not aware of the services Tony may have provided my cousin Enzo, God rest his soul,” I lie smoothly. The insulation provided to me by my captains was part of their responsibilities to the family as a whole. Besides, though it broke my heart that he’s dead, Enzo would understand and approve of me deflecting using his name. “While in my direct employ, he has been an upstanding and valued part of the Luciani Financial Services family.”
“Of course,” Detective Tillman replied dryly. “And was her other tail, a man named…let’s see…Jacob Sizemore. Was he also in your employ?”
“I only knew about Tony,” Constance says before I jump in.
“Who is this Jacob Sizemore, and what do you know about him?” I demand.
“I’ll get your email and send you the video clip we have of him. We’ve got this Sizemore fellow riding a motorcycle past the pizzeria after Ms. Monroe enters, and then another clip of him on the next street over, where he meets up with Grangerand Harrison and speaks with them, just before they park in the alley and then go around to the front of the restaurant where they launched their attack. Sizemore waits until he sees Ms. Monroe being loaded into their SUV then he leaves. I’ve already got a warrant in the works to bring Sizemore in for a conspiracy charge on the kidnapping, and once we can talk to him, I’m positive we’ll be able to find out who else he was working with.”
“That’s great news, Detective.” Constance smiles at me over the phone sitting between us. “I had no idea anyone else was following me. If you can track down who paid him to come after me, we can hopefully put this matter to rest without anyone else getting hurt.”
“Speaking of people being hurt, one of my associates went to Mount Sinai yesterday to speak to your friend, Melissa Neilan. We’ve ordered a patrolman to stand guard at her room while she’s in the hospital, just in case this attack was targeted against her, as well.”
“I appreciate that, Detective,” Constance says. “To be honest I’ve been more worried for her than for myself.”
“Don’t be,” the detective replies. “I’m almost certain she was just collateral damage, which is what I’m afraid you’re going to be if we don’t get this sorted out soon. Mr. Luciani, Ms. Monroe, are you certain there isn’t more that you can tell me regarding who, specifically, might be willing to go through such lengths to harm you?”
“We’d like to know the answer to that just as much, if not more, than you do,” I say, deflecting the question. “Please send us that clip of this Sizemore fellow, and we’ll see if we recognize him from anywhere else.” I recite my email address to the detective, then tell him, “We’ll call you immediately if we think of anything else or have any updates. Please, do the same, Detective Tillman.”
“I understand,” the detective says. “Take care Ms. Monroe, Mr. Luciani,” he adds before ending the call.
Constance and I both lean back in our chairs, lost in thought. “I guess we’ll have to just wait until the police round up this guy on the motorcycle, Sizemore, and see what we can find out from him. Do you think he might be able to lead us to Irina?”
My phone dings with a new e-mail, which is from Detective Tillman. Instead of replying to Constance, I pull up the attached video clip and get up from my seat, walking around my desk to take the chair beside her so we can watch together. The first clip is from outside the pizzeria, Constance walking inside. A few seconds later, Tony Buck glides by in his black SUV. While Tony can be seen turning around in the street and pulling up to the curb opposite the restaurant, a sparkling emerald-green sports bike slows as it nears the front doors. The rider, also wearing a green helmet and jacket, glances around, then the bike roars and zips out of sight.
That clip ends, and I pull up the next one attached to the e-mail. This one is longer and is slower to load. When it does, it takes me a moment to get it oriented since the video is overlooking an alley and part of the next street over at an odd angle. The motorcycle rider appears at the edge of the screen, parking his bike with the tail facing the camera. “That might be how they identified him,” I comment as I point to the license plate.
“It’s too small to read, but I suppose the police have ways to zoom in and enhance it,” Constance says as we continue watching. The biker pulls out his phone to make a phone call, then gets off the motorcycle and, pulling off his helmet, lights up a cigarette and smokes while lingering at the side of the road.
“They might have used some sort of facial ID, too,” I point out as we get a good look at the young man’s long, rat-like visage.
“He’s got some sort of patches on his jacket,” Constance observes. “Do you think those might mean anything?”
I scroll the video a bit to try to get a better look at the patches on his sleeves and back, which appear to be some sort of stylized black devil or imp creature. “They don’t mean anything to me,” I tell her as an idea begins to take shape in my mind. “But I may know someone who can tell us more.” I scroll forward as the biker smokes another cigarette, then watch him throw it down and grind it out underfoot as a Ford Explorer pulls into the alley just underneath the camera, and he walks across the street to talk to the two men who emerge.
“That’s them, the ones who attacked us. The men I killed.” If there’s a slight tremor in her voice, she swallows it immediately, and I feel another surge of pride.
Rat-face walks back across the street to his motorcycle, and I scroll the video forward again as he gets his helmet back into place and cranks up the bike. He sits on it for a few minutes, until the two men come back into the frame dragging a struggling Constance, who they manhandle into the back of the Explorer before whipping back out into traffic. The biker watches them leave, then rides off in the opposite direction as the clip comes to an end.
I notice Constance has turned her head away at the tail end of the video, presumably the part where she was shoved into the SUV. “I hope seeing that didn’t bring it all rushing back,” I tell her.
“It did, but I’m okay.” She gives me a wan smile. “So, you think you might be able to get more information about this Jacob Sizemore with your connections? Faster than the police can?”
“The police have to actually find him first. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but most of the people in this business don’t keep a permanent address. I have the luxury of being insulatedenough from the street level antics that I can have a home. Most of the men who work for me don’t want to be found so easily, so they maybe get their mail at their mother’s house, or even a P.O. box. What they don’t do is register a place where any street cop can just stop by and question them any time they like.”
“So how do you plan to track him down?” Constance asks, raising an eyebrow at me.
